


it was a chorus so sublime

by philthestone



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, They changed the Character Name Tags its freaking me out, and everyone is now recieving, anyways -- this is all mayas fault, the space dystopia resistance leaders au no one except maya asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 04:27:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9802619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: “I miss Him,” says Anne, her voice lost to the arches of the cathedral, trapped here in this limbo of life and death in a war-torn galaxy. “That’s why I came here. I was wondering if He’s still watching over us.”“There is no doubt in my mind,” says Aramis, his voice thick with something she can’t place, looking directly at Anne as though her presence is what is solidifying this conviction.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [weaslayyy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weaslayyy/gifts).



> i still cant believe i wrote a space dystopia resistance leaders au half a week before midterms but. i did? this is maya's fault.
> 
> anyways, the ao3 annamis tag is only 12 pages long, which is a TRAGEDY so im trying to like, trying to fix that slowly? I could make a joke here about its barrenness and how im tossing the tag into the waters of bourbon st eaux but that might be in bad taste
> 
> reviews are looking up at the night sky and being able to count the stars, they're that precise feeling of awe and happiness u feel when u do that

The stars are shining through the crumbling gaps in the building’s domed ceiling.

Anne can see them, count them, watch as they twinkle and shine at her almost in mockery, silver and gold against the ink blue of the sky. Her feet make muted sounds against the gravel as she steps across the stone of the old church, down through the pews and towards the front. Great big slabs of marble are lying buried into the ground, cracks not webbing but tracing patterns around them. It’s almost artful in its destruction, deceptively beautiful, spanning across the floor and sneaking under her feet. There is dust choking the once-shimmering gold and bronze gilding of the arches, flying high into the sky above her like someone has thrown a swath of the industrial glue she’s seen Constance use on broken plates over the architecture. 

Most of the glass in the windows is shattered, blackened. Anne wonders if it used to be stained.

She feels her hands raise up to cradle each other at the elbows; there’s a cool blanket that’s seeping in through the gaping blast holes in the architecture, brushing against her cheeks, and the silky fabric of her dress is not conducive to remaining comfortable in such weather. She thinks that perhaps she should go back to their safehouse, change into something more sensible; her jacket and circlet are lying on the table, she knows, easy to reach, ready for her to don again tomorrow. The clasps of her boots would not be that hard to fasten, and she would be ready to face the galaxy, the clothing bringing with it the seamless, trained ability to armor herself with words.

The sounds of her slippered footsteps should be echoing more than they are, Anne thinks. It feels as if she is being swallowed by the vast night sky above her. 

There’s already a lantern at the front of the cathedral, by the confession box. The mesh itself is destroyed, left in tatters – one side of the box has great black streaks running across it, and in the warm orange half-light Anne cannot tell if it is dust or the fingerprints of a burn, the flames of the explosion having dragged their hands across one of the most intimate spots in the church.

She sits down. 

Aramis has his head in his hands. An unusual occurrence in itself, of course – this is the first thought that crosses her mind. Not that he is already here, in this place that she has snuck into for solace in the middle of the night, here on a backwater planet that they’ve found shelter in – she finds that utterly unquestionable, slipping into her understanding of the galaxy seamlessly.

God, someone wants her _dead_.

Anne should be more surprised than she is.

But Aramis is in the church, in this abandoned, crumbling place somehow still standing in the ruins of rim worlds that have been blasted apart by an ongoing war that Anne has been a part of since she was a preteen; not hers then, and still not wholly hers now. But it’s been raging on around her since she was a child, blasterfire and reports of skirmishes in obscure planetside villages, bases and forts always on the periphery of her world of swirling politics and choking mind games. A symbol, Anne, she reminds herself. You are a shining symbol for an honourable resistance. 

For the first time, Anne is not sure if their grand plans for re-establishing a constitutional monarchy of the planets, some semblance of order over the empire that Feron and his ilk forced into place so many years ago, is worth it all. She’s twenty-six. She has yet to _live_ , and now someone wants _her_ , specifically, dead. 

And he is _here_ , in this place she has come to seek solace, looking every bit as though he has come for the same reasons, and Anne finds herself oddly serene. He had the same idea she did, and perhaps – it is a comforting thought. A uniting thought.

“I wonder,” says Anne, quietly into the space in front of them. “If once there were paintings on that ceiling.”

He doesn’t answer for a moment and it’s alright, Anne thinks. She’d not spoken for the purpose of getting an answer, only to voice her thoughts aimlessly. _Be heard_ , maybe, by someone, anyone, in this little sacred spot she has found. She does not have much opportunity to be aimless in her speech, to simply say whatever she is feeling; here, in the flickering lantern light and the sweeping arches of a broken cathedral, she lets her words slip out without direction or purpose. She’s in a cocoon that is the safest she has felt in years and it is crumbling down before she even claimed it as her own.

Well. It’s not only her own. She’s sharing it. 

“There were,” suddenly, into the warm lantern light.

“Pardon?”

“Paintings.” He points, his shoulders still hunched but his head lifting up with his arm as he traces something invisible in the air with his finger. “You can see the outlines through the dust. There – that’s the wing of an angel. And here, where the arch dips –” He turns his head, following his finger – “the halo of the Holy Mother.”

Anne peers into the shadows of the wall, tracing the path from his outstretched finger to the fading outlines of a figure, muted against the damaged stone.

“How do you know it’s her?” Anne’s voice is soft. She doesn’t feel it needs to be quite loud or firm or even particularly regal, right now.

(She can hear Constance tell her fondly that she’s always regal, even in her nightclothes hiding in the cellar when she doesn’t mean to be at all, and that is enough to bring the hint of a smile to her lips.)

“There’s the crook of her elbow,” he says. His voice is suddenly impossibly soft and obscenely loud all at once, magnified by the flicker of the lantern’s energy crystal. Anne feels as though she could reach out and cradle it in her hands.

“Where she’s holding the babe,” Anne realizes, finishes for him.

Aramis has always been a little bit too beautiful for his own good, Anne thinks, now that he turns to look at her. The light is unpredictable, dancing, and it ignites spots of bright gold in his dark eyes, trapped under clever eyebrows that are now soft in their regarding of her. He’s seated with his back to the lantern and Anne can see in detail the outline of his hair, unruly and curling at the ends. Undisciplined even here, where Anne has been taught from a young age is a House for discipline and order.

 _Obedience_. 

Anne wonders what Marie de Medici or The Cardinal would say if she told them she knew God on her own terms. Laugh, probably. Possibly. They have long passed the point of appearances for her, she knows. If they were to look scandalized, Anne would know it a farce. 

Louis wouldn’t even try to understand. _Indifference_ might be the right word; it isn’t borne of maliciousness, though perhaps there is a bit of a mean streak in him when he feels threatened. Anne can’t say that she’s ever been a threat before. Even when she’s wearing her resistance uniform, the embroidered jacket cut in angles and the circlet heavy against her brow, she’s not supposed to be any more than an _idea_.

Then again, didn’t her father used to tell her as a child, their native _Espagna_ melodic on his tongue, that even the smallest of ideas could bring down the most bloodthirsty of Kings? _Thoughts_ , he had said. Words. Feelings.

Constance’s safehouse is full of those, Anne has come to know in the brief moments they’ve spent planetside. A hole, almost, buried into the ground under the crest of a hill that looks up at the other two moons hanging in the capitol’s orbit on the horizon. It’s been two days and she knows the easy laughter in Constance’s little kitchen intimately, the way they bicker over the caf replicator and act as though Constance is the queen of the entire galaxy, sweeping bows at the door and gracious offers to fix her broken dish-cleaner. She’s come to revel at the _idea_ that she could know these people better – know more about Porthos than just the way he runs his fingers over the holomaps on the table; or Athos, the peculiar way in which he holds his saber; d’Artagnan’s deft fingers twisting the ends off scavenged explosives; the way Aramis cleans his set of blasters, methodic and automatic. She lets Constance’s affectionate reprimands soak into her chest, solidifying into something bigger than small words dropped to warn Aramis’s boots off the table – something _bigger_.

Constance’s safehouse is full of ideas. Constance had told Anne quietly, the night before, that she is glad her husband is planetside on the core world on business, so that she could be useful like this, and that is another idea. Anne holds Constance’s hand in her own and tries not to let the ideas overwhelm them.

She wonders if she could tell them, outright, that she is more than they allow her. That there are others who know her to be more than they allow her. The datachip that she had been holding amongst her things weighs heavy in the pocket of her dress, even now as she sits on the edge of the ancient pew. She is not sure if it is freeing her with its power or weighing her down with its secrecy. 

“Are you alright?” asks Anne. That seems to be the right thing to ask, right about now. The light slows its dance in Aramis’s eyes, as though it knows that the conversation is no longer dancing on the edge of an electric charge. No less important, though, thinks Anne.

Aramis smiles at her, the sort of smile people give when they are half-surprised by your concern and half-amused by your conclusions.

“Yes,” he says. “Only thinking.” He pauses, and looks up at the basilica above them. “This felt like a good place to think.”

“Mmm,” hums Anne. “I’d thought all of these were gone.”

She had heard stories, of course, in those first days of the resistance – whispers, laments across the stars. _Gone, gone, gone_. Louis had been scared and appalled, Anne remembers, but only because of the damage to the property itself – the indignity of the _act_. Not for the loss.

“There’s a few left. If you know where to look.”

“It’s –” Anne stops, breathes, _feels_ – “magnificent, isn’t it? It’s got such greatness. Even – even now.”

“Now,” repeats Aramis, slowly, beside her. “I don’t think anyone could take away the greatness truly.”

“Perhaps –” starts Anne, but she doesn’t want to finish the thought. _Perhaps if it were turned to dust completely_.

Beside her, Aramis shifts on the bench and brings his hands together, fingers playing with a small shape Anne knows all too well. She can still remember how it felt sitting around her own throat, the gold warm against her skin, heated from its presence under her shirt all day.

“You were praying,” she realizes, suddenly feeling the most irrational urge to blush. “I interrupted you, I’m sorry.”

“What?” He looks confused, almost adorably so, moving to straighten himself against the pew and look at her properly again. A few strands of hair bounce as he does, hanging over his eyebrows. “No, I was – you did nothing at all, I really was just thinking.”

“You’re certain?” asks Anne.

“Would I lie to you, your Majesty?”

“Ana,” she blurts, and then bites her lip, but she doesn’t turn away. Aramis is the sort to understand, or she wouldn’t have said it at all.

“What?”

“Ana,” she says. “My name. What my mother named me.”

She wants to tell him suddenly that she’s always had a love for the cheaper orange light crystals, the ones you can get for two half-credits at any given market place on most rim worlds. She’s spent her life surrounded by a soft blue glow, craving the warmth of the less expensive light. Porthos had commented irritably the other day, still on home base as Treville gave them instructions on their mission, that the things sputtered out far too quickly for his liking. _Spend more credits on them collectively than you would on a few good ones_ , he’d said, but Aramis had declared that he liked their warmth. Anne had not turned at his voice, busy thanking Captain Treville, but she’d _wanted_ to. 

It’s odd, almost, to think of _light_ as priced and packaged. His eyes are liquid in it, the golden brown dynamic and molten.

“René,” he says, finally, after a very long moment, and the word comes out like it’s a gift he’s giving to her in payment for the one she just gave him.

“That’s –”

“What _my_ mother named me, God rest her soul,” he says, a bit of laughter in his voice when his eyes flick up to the ceiling as though he’s confirming God’s cooperation in the matter.

Anne tilts her head.

“It suits you.”

He heaves a big sigh, slouching back against the pew and tilting his head upwards to the stars shining in the sky above them. Space is so vast and dark and dangerous, Anne knows, and there are so few spots like this left. They should be getting back soon, or the others will start to worry, but Anne cannot bring herself to leave just yet. It’s the easiest place to just _breathe_ , release the exhaustion that’s been clawing its way into her bones – there’s no _time_ for that now, everything’s only just _beginning_ – because the cockpit has always felt a bit stifling to her and the hard ground of the large moon they’ve crash landed on is too flat for her to feel properly at ease anywhere that isn’t covered by a low roof. 

And besides – if Aramis is with her, they may not be so worried. Certainly, _she_ can’t seem to feel the danger quite as keenly. 

“I got a holo,” he says, suddenly, into the space above them. “From an old friend. That’s why I was thinking in – well, in here.”

Anne doesn’t say anything; she’s learned from her time being the regal (Constance is so very right sometimes) face of their not so small resistance that sometimes you learn more if you say less.

“An old friend of mine, she’s – she’s doing well. With the resistance, on one of their bases. I guess she heard I was here, so she reached out – I don’t know.”

“Were you good friends?” asks Anne, quietly.

“We were engaged to be married,” says Aramis, almost as though he has a hard time believing himself, staring at a spot on the floor now, beside the lantern. Its crystal is slowly dying out, Anne notices. “She got – well, she fell pregnant. Because we were sixteen and a pair of idiots. But I’m fairly sure I loved her more than anyone in all the universe, and –” he stops, frowns, tightens his unmoving fingers, which is odd because he’s practically been fidgeting the whole two years Anne’s known him, she _knows_ – and Anne notices that there’s a little datachip not unlike the one in her dress pocket clutched in his other fist, parallel to the crucifix she’d given him. “We lost the baby and I never saw her again,” he finishes, staring at that spot on the rubble-covered stones of the old bombed cathedral. Beyond the great walls, Anne is sure the whole of space is tilting on its axis. She feels something very important burst and tighten in her chest, like there’s been a shift in the way the galaxy moves. 

“But she’s – doing alright now?”

“Yeah,” says Aramis. “She’s doing alright now. Really well, actually. She’s working for the resistance.” He laughs, the sort of laugh Anne knows is one people give when they’re trying not to cry because they expressly feel like they’ve no reason to cry. Usually, Anne has found, the reasons are very good. People are just terrible at accepting them, and Anne has first hand experience being that person herself.

It’s odd, because Anne realizes that you can know quite a lot about a person and not know much at all. Skillsets; the precision with a blaster, so uncannily good at hitting the target that she’s heard whispers among some of the more superstitious of their camp that it’s unnatural, some sort of rimworld sorcery or trick. Appearance; clever eyes and quick smile, and a gentle voice that she finds carries safety in its warmth even as its owner quite literally flirts with danger on a day-to-day basis. Loyalties –

( _To you_ , Constance had said quietly, the other night, in the sputtering light of another of those cheap crystals. They’d been huddled in the blast room of the little home, their friends – _friends_ , what an interesting word – out in the main room, insisting they stand guard. _Their loyalty is to the resistence_ , Anne had said, so unreasonably tired, and Constance had quietly corrected her, their fingers once more linked on the duracrete ground between them.)

Well. Anne realizes that you can know quite a lot about a person and not really know much at all.

“Me as well.” She’s said it before she can overthink, can regulate her words as she usually does out of fear and necessity ingrained into her soul. 

“What?” She’s thrown him for a loop again.

“I mean –” and here Anne takes the deepest breath she has ever taken in her life, it feels, only in reality it’s really quite small. “I lost a child too. A long time ago – I was barely fifteen.”

He straightens in his seat, slowly, movements hovering in the flickering light. 

“I was –” Anne blinks, looks up, holds his gaze. “I was so happy about it, too. So excited. Like it would mend everything together, you know? Give me a purpose.”

Aramis is looking at her as though he’s never seen her before in his life and perhaps that is why Anne knows that he understands.

Above them, the ceiling opens up to the heavens and Anne suddenly has a burning question, one that she’s had ever since their small ship swung low and scraped a furrow into the field outside of Constance’s little house. They’d been holding on for their dear lives, power core sputtering so loudly that even Athos had held an expression that Anne has come to identify as his _properly terrified without any reason to pretend he’s not_ – a rarity in itself, if she’s being truthful. Anne had been holding onto the arm of the captain’s chair, clenching her jaw and praying. She was a symbol of the resistance, the queen married to Louis’s rightful kingship at the age of fourteen. How could she hope to inspire people to help them take back planetary rule if she was visibly frightened by a speeding spacecraft? 

But she remembers: Aramis’s eyes had been positively dancing with excitement.

“Does it feel freeing? Being in the cockpit?”

If Aramis is surprised at this change of topic, he doesn’t show it, but rather follows her gaze up at the mismatched stars shining their light in through the cracks.

“More than – well.” He huffs out a breath of air. “I’m good at it.”

“I know.”

Just as Athos is good with his swords and d’Artagnan is good with ballistics; as adept at it as Porthos is with strategy or Constance with a medic kit. But there’s something – more.

“Yes,” he says after a moment, his voice hoarse. “Yes, it’s – it’s freeing. More than most things I know.”

“But not all things?” A small grin flits at his lips, sudden and involuntary, and Anne wishes she had more opportunity to tease people. 

“I take pride in being multi-talented, you know.”

She’s bumping his shoulder with hers before she can stop herself, a small smile curling at her lips. His surprise flashes across his face so quickly Anne could swear it’s a trick of the lantern light. 

“I know that, too.”

She wants to say that they’re friends – of a sort. That she feels closer to him, to his band of brothers, to Constance, than she has felt to anyone in her life since the moment she was taken away from her mother as a girl. Taken and used as a political tool to resist a deposed monarchy that she is not sure is even worth fighting to reestablish, anymore. Anne has a duty, she knows, to Louis and to the galaxy and to her home planet – but she also has a conscience and a flame of morality that refuses to be doused in her soul and here, _here_ – here, in this crumbling cathedral that opens itself up to the heavens, that flame is magnified.

Or perhaps that’s just Aramis’s presence. He has saved her life more than once, after all; it would be fitting for him to be the one to make her feel _alive_.

She would scoff at the sentiment of her own words if her throat did not suddenly feel so tight. She wishes that she did not always feel the emptiness of loss after every fleeting moment of camaraderie she experiences. 

Anne shifts, slipping her hands into the pockets of her synthsilk dress. Her fingers find the warmed outline of her datachip, and she swallows against the secret in it, hoping that it will be enough to at least change _one_ piece of the galactic puzzle.

“I like your dress,” says Aramis lightly, his voice carrying everything of its usual self. He jokes with Constance all the time, she’s noticed, comments full of cotton and love, fraternal to the point of hilarity. But always genuine – she does not think she’s ever seen him _insincere_ , and something about that simple phrase was not quite like his remarks to the young medic that Anne left asleep in the cot across from hers back at the safehouse. 

“It has pockets,” says Anne, smiling. Her embroidered uniform jacket does not have pockets, and that more than anything makes her feel as though she is not meant to be anything more than _for show_.

Something in Aramis’s smile warms, as though he understands her completely. “Very rim world, I hear.”

“Are you well versed in Venissian fashion?”

“Mmm,” he says, smiling fully now. There’s a long moment, where Anne curls her fists within her pockets and Aramis’s fingers twitch with restlessness, as they are so wont to do. And then, “Isabell said that she’s happy we went our separate ways,” Aramis says suddenly, without prompting. “I can’t help but think – she said it so simply.”

Anne looks down at her hands and thinks of the way the midwife had told her, in such simple words, that what was _hers_ was gone. Or maybe not hers – placed under her care, and she had failed. She’d been no more than a girl, and Louis had hardly spoken to her about it. Pretended like it hadn’t happened, shut in his own rooms for days. Marie de Medici had told her to pull herself together and the Cardinal had been busy, dealing with rumours of a bombing ravaging another of the planets, and Anne had been alone.

 _Alone_.

“It’s easier that way, sometimes,” says Anne. “To be simple about it.”

Aramis says nothing, but she sees his hands come up to toy with the pendant at his neck again. She can’t tell if the movement is deliberate or unconscious; he’s looking back up at the ceiling, eyes wide as they trace the patchwork, ancient paintings. 

“Is it?” His voice is soft – _this_ , Anne thinks, is unconscious. “It feels like nothing I ever do is _easy_ , I –” A pause, an inhale – “I complicate things.”

There’s something in Anne that wants to immediately dispute this, to talk of his quick-coming smile (the simplest thing in the world), or the ease with which he takes people’s hands in his own without prompting, how she has seen Constance and Porthos and Athos and d’Artagnan lose the tension in their shoulders to the warmth of Aramis’s simple grasp. How his fingers dance at a ship’s controls, nimble and fast, making it look so easy when most people could not tell you the clutch from the drive accelerator. How quickly and freely his offer of friendship is extended, to anyone from the little girl at the market on Douai’s moon two days ago to Anne herself, the supposedly unattainable, untouchable, radiant girl queen.

Anne wants to tell him the number of times she has wished, in the months she’s known him, that she could love as freely and easily as him. 

The lantern light flickers. Anne wonders were she to touch the plexiglass around it, if her fingers would burn. 

_Inhala._

“I don’t think complications that arise out of love are bad ones,” is what she decides on. She does not like that she’s decided to say anything, but Anne doesn’t think this is a point in the conversation where she can blurt out just anything. And besides – the lantern is dimming. Maybe when there is less light, she _will_ tell him.

“Athos tells me I love too much,” says Aramis, a quiet amusement covering his words so that the confusion underneath is hidden, if badly. Anne has great amounts of experience hiding her confusion; Aramis hardly knows where to start. Anne traces the arm of the Virgin Mary with her eyes, over his shoulder.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” she says, quietly. “Or if it were, I wouldn’t think – in the universe we live in now. I don’t think it’s such a bad thing.” Anne looks at him again, and he’s looking back, something unreadable in his expression, but there’s – there’s an intensity, _God_ , she’s never known _intensity_ to be intermingled with kindness and warmth like this, only ever seen it cold and cruel in politicians or desperate and harsh on soldiers’ faces in the midst of firefights. She swallows. “In fact,” she says, “I think it’s one of the best things a person can be.”

She turns her face, back up to the ceiling like it will give her some reprieve or deter her from what would be so _easy_ (simple, natural, graceful, as though those are not all adjectives that flitted through her mind only moments before) – _inhala_ again, her native language playing on loop in her head as she sucks in a breath, tries to reach the cool air seeping into the basilica with her lungs.

She wonders what Aramis was like at sixteen. And then, all too easily, what he would have been like as a father.

“Do you think He’s still out there?” she asks, looking at the crumbling paintings hanging in the sky above them. “God, I mean. Only sometimes I feel –” There’s so much – so _much_. Anne doesn’t know how to finish that thought, only that there’s something about her current state of being that is overwhelming in the worst possible way, and though she cannot tell The Cardinal that she knows God on her own terms, she can – _here_ , she can say something. 

The cheap, warm crystal of the lantern sputters. In the morning, Anne will don her armor and face her mortality as she has done countless times before, grip the datachip in her pocket in tight, un-trembling fingers and hope to the heavens that the Cardinal continues to underestimate her.

They should really return to Constance’s safehouse, Anne thinks. The others will worry, even if _they_ are slowly learning not to underestimate her.

“I miss Him,” says Anne, her voice lost to the arches of the church. “That’s why I came here. I was wondering if He’s still watching over us.”

“There is no doubt in my mind,” says Aramis, his voice thick with something she can’t place, looking directly at Anne as though her presence is what is solidifying this conviction. Anne feels quite suddenly like there is nothing more important in all the universe than what she is about to do next.

“René,” she says again, testing the name on her tongue. And then she kisses him.

Above them, the half-broken angels of the starry sky hang, like stalwart guardians who are too strong to be erased from the world. Anne sighs, breathes, _feels_.

His hair is unruly and undisciplined under her fingers, and the crystal from the lantern dies out.

**Author's Note:**

> \- the aesthetic of this universe is supposed to be a weird mix between star wars, hunger games, and 17th century Catholicism. that makes a lot more sense in my own head than it does written down in a sentence, but there u have it  
> \- listen u guys. dont ask me what the larger plot is in this verse because i SERIOUSLY couldnt tell u. why is anne hiding a datachip in her pocket? do u know? i certainly dont!!!  
> \- isabelle aint dead bc i love this show to pieces but that was not strictly necessary and like, i would like 2 think shes living happily and doing her cool thing out there somewhere  
> \- chronology is like .... veeeeery loosely structured around show's canon. so, yes, this is the nunnery sceneTM, but anne and constance are already close friends, and she's been escorted by the musketeers around before and knows them well, etc. also, marie de medici hasn't yet made her bid for power  
> \- @emilybrontay once rightfully said that the nunnery sceneTM was Holy, somehow, and honestly she's 100% correct. the vibe, the aesthetic, the dialogue, the emotion, even the blocking gave it an odd aura of like .... religious but in the purest sense of that word? it was very _annamis_ , is all i can say, which is SO circular but oh well  
> \- me: "where would annamis go for date night"; sennen: "church" (she's right)  
> \- title's from florence and the machine bc i stg mother florence sat down one day and decided to write a whole discography just for this relationship and thats a fact  
> \- pretty sure that's all the notes i need? i love this scene guys i loVE this sc E NE,,


End file.
